“What do you need?” she asked. “I mean, for the rehearsal?”
“Basically, we just need a large, empty room to work in. Nothing special. Maybe a place to store our stuff, set up some props. Something big enough to hold about fifteen people with room to move around.”
“That doesn’t sound too hard to find.”
“It’s not,” he said, steadying himself in the seat by spreading his arms wide. “There are a lot of rehearsal places around the city for rent, we just can’t afford any of them.”
He looked like he had basically gotten himself in position and was able to ride a few feet.
“Let me play around with this thing for a few minutes,” he said. “I have to blow off some steam.”
Scarlett knew that when Spencer was frustrated, the best thing to do was let him fall down a lot. He rode off unsteadily down the path, narrowly avoiding running over some small dogs and almost falling over into a stroller as he went.
A large empty space with storage. Something that fifteen people could move around in. It was a shame—they had nothing but empty rooms at their place. But they were too small, too full of fragile things. Except…
A little germ of an idea popped into Scarlett’s mind. At first, it seemed like a very bad, weak idea. But it didn’t bring any little idea friends along with it, so it was the only idea.
Spencer came back into view, carrying his unicycle under one arm. He was much dirtier than when he first rode off a few minutes before.
“You know what?” he said. “People give you really suspicious looks when you emerge from a bush, covered in leaves, carrying a unicycle.”
“I know a place,” Scarlett said. “It’s not pretty. It doesn’t have any fancy stuff in it. But it isn’t going to be condemned.”
Spencer cocked an eyebrow at her.
“And how much does this paradise cost?” he asked.
“It’s free.”
She definitely had his attention now.
“Our basement,” she said. “It’s big. It’s mostly unused. It isn’t covered in mold that will kill you.”
Spencer tumbled to the grass.
“I don’t think Mom and Dad will let us move an entire theater company into the hotel,” he said. “I think Dad would call that something like ‘guest disruption.’ Also, they might change their minds about my show counting when they find out that we don’t even have a place to store our unicycles. I don’t even think they should know about the unicycles. Otherwise, I like everything about your plan.”
“The trick,” Scarlett said, “is that they won’t know about it. How often do any of us even go into the basement, except to get to the washing machine or the recycling?”
Spencer thought this over.
“I go down there,” he said. “Because that’s where I keep my bike. That’s about it.”
“So, if we make sure that we’re the only ones taking the recycling down or doing the wash, no one will actually see.”
There was silence for a few moments as Spencer did a little feasibility test in his head. Scarlett could see him sitting straighter as it dawned on him that this just might work.
“Everyone can come in through Trash Can Alley,” Scarlett thought aloud.
That was the nickname for the service entrance to the basement, which was a set of concrete steps leading down to a dark doorway. They kept the hotel trash cans chained up to the railing that protected it.
“I can stand by the front door and give you the all clear. As long as you all go in and out at the same time, it should work.”
Spencer was looking more and more hopeful every second. He spun the wheel with his hand.
“We might not be seen,” he said. “But could be heard. We scream and yell.”
“Who pays attention to screaming and yelling in New York? It’ll be muffled. No one’s going to think it’s coming from the basement. It’ll at least buy you a few days.”
A preliminary test brought excellent results. It would be relatively easy to get everyone in and out of the side entrance with the door propped open. Scarlett sat in the lobby while Spencer went down and screamed for a while. She could hear him, but as she suspected, it didn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary. They sat in his room to work out the finer details.
Spencer’s bedroom was the Maxwell Suite. It was a small, simple room designed for single, professional men—back when people used to live in hotels, as they sometimes did. It was his private hovel, filled with all the things that made Spencer, Spencer. There were pieces of bike, dog-eared scripts, bizarre pieces of old costumes, a massive pile of books on acting, and a few truly mysterious boxes and containers that Scarlett divined, just by instinct, she never wanted to know the contents of.
“If Lola has to take Marlene somewhere by seven,” he said, reaching into one of these and pulling out a crumbled contact sheet, “then we should be good from maybe six-thirty on.”